The English Hunger Games
by Strawe
Summary: "Welcome to the 100th Hunger Games and the 4th Quarter Quell! Panem is in for a surprise for this one - we don't mean to tease, but it has something to do with 24 very special, hand-picked kids! Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" There's a new president ruling Panem, under the name of Lord English, and he's chosen 24 familiar faces for the Hunger Games.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Very first Homestuck and/or Hunger Games fanfic! Go easy on me.**

**So, scary nightmare from Gamzee's past. Oooooh. Mysteeeerious. Turns out to be very important later on, so keep it in mind. 8D**

I wrapped my trembling arms around my legs and pressed them to my chest.

I couldn't see anything. I didn't _want_ to see anything. And I didn't want anybody—any_thing_—to see me.

Especially not _him_.

I pressed my cold cheek to my knees. My heart beat was loud. Wild. Fluttering and flopping, as if it were tumbling down the side of a jagged cliff—and at the base of the cliff, a battalion of sharp rocks turned their points to face it.

It dawned on me then. That was all that was left for me. A horrible, sticky end. And I would've cried then, if it weren't for the paralyzing fear that gripped me. My blood had already run cold, and a dark, malevolent hand had begun to curl its morbid fingers around my beating heart, waiting for that moment it could crush it and allow me to finally die.

There was no doubt in my mind now. I _wanted_ to die. If only to get that blood-curdling scream out of my head.

_Creak_.

I froze.

_Creak_.

The footsteps sent a fresh wave of dread through me. I struggled to quiet my breathing, which had become loud in the horrible silence. I steadied my gaze on the blackness in front of me, and held my breath.

_Thump_.

I covered my mouth with clammy hands and tried not to scream.

The creaking stopped, and I knew he found me. He was waiting outside of those doors. His manic smile swept through my thoughts, rendering me incapable of movement. If he opened those doors, I wouldn't be able to fight back.

His breathing was choppy and ragged. There was something primal about it, something so horrifically bloodthirsty about it. I could imagine the crimson splattered all across his bland, grey slacks that he so loved.

Something landed on the wooden floor with a thud, followed by a sickening, muffled splash. He dropped something.

Despite me, a single tear trickled down my flushed cheeks.

Was he standing in a pool of his blood?

Time stopped. I felt the frigid closet air running up and down my spine, but I refused to move. I couldn't move, anyway. I could feel his presence outside the door, waiting for me to give myself up, so that he could lop off my head the moment I stepped into the silvery moonlight. It would be so easy.

But I waited.

I waited for a long time, cooped up inside that wretched closet. I would not move. I had become a statue, depicting the true epitome of terror; my hunched back, my white-knuckled hands, my fetal position was proof enough.

I didn't move until somebody opened the doors and snatched me away.

* * *

I sat upright, hands flailing, eyes popped open wide. The sting of the morning sun burned my wavering vision, still fighting off waves of sleep. But I was up, and there was no way I was going back to sleep.

The memory was still fresh in my mind—I could conjure accelerated breathing just by thinking about thinking of the memory—and it only worsened in nightmares. The shadows were taller, the corners darker, my clothing bloodier, the footsteps closer.

I shivered.

"Miracles," I whispered. It was the only explanation as to how I was alive today.

I was debating sitting in bed for another ten minutes when the sound of my name was thrown across the drafty room by a coarse, indignant holler, followed by an impressive string of colourful language that could make a sailor blush.

Karkat's head appeared around the doorway, wrenched into a foul snarl, as per typical. Seeing it, I allowed a sleazy grin to stretch across my face. He always knew how to brighten my day—by being there.

The grin set off another set of curses under his breath. "Gamzee, I swear, I am going to starve you to death. Get _up_." He disappeared around the corner, leaving me to my own devices—of course, that meant ignoring Karkat's orders and sitting in bed for another ten minutes to dream about something particularly sunshine-y and rainbow-y and smiles-and-happiness-y.

Ten minutes later, I sauntered into the kitchen, barefoot and as hungry as a bear. Karkat had already tucked himself behind the wooden table.

"Eat," he said. "And then we're heading to the square."

"Huh?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Did you forget? Today is the Reaping Day."

Oh.


	2. Chapter 2

"Gamzee, straighten up your tie."

I looked down at my purple tie and saw nothing wrong with it, but I pretended to adjust it. After wrangling with it for a few moments, I let it fall slack and observed my handiwork. It looked more crooked than it was before.

Karkat sighed, the action filled with disdain. I shrugged. He shouldn't have been counting on me to fix anything about my appearance. I tugged at a few loose strands of black hair that bounced on my head in a wild mass of dark curls. It was untamable, and I reminded Karkat every time he tried to comb in into submission.

He never gave up, though.

"I don't see why I have to look pretty, anyway. I thought you agreed with me on that, if anything."

Karkat sighed again. "Yes, of course I do. The reaping is a just the Capitol's way of putting glitter on this sick ritual where they throw kids to the—"

"Whoa, there, buddy." I placed a hand on his shoulder. It was tense. "No need to get worked up."

"Hands off. And stop trying to treat me like you're little brother—I'm _not_."

"Have I ever told you that you're, like, wicked cute?"

The hand stayed. My other hand played with his dark hair—it was about as messy as mine, much to his chagrin, but not as curly and long. I suspected it was carefully tousled and messy on purpose, but I never brought it up with him.

We were like brothers in more ways than one. Both with dark hair, murky brown eyes, tanned, ashen skin that came with being a resident of District 12, the poorest district in the nation. But I was taller than him by a good head, and our personalities were nothing alike; his expression was pulled into a perpetual frown, and I liked to smile.

Those eligible for reaping were herded into pens based on their age. Both Karkat and I were sixteen, so we trudged to the pen that also held the sixteen-year-old children.

They leered at us as we entered the pen. Karkat kicked gravel at them, and they kept their distance. I chuckled.

"You're never going to have any friends if you keep acting like that."

"I don't want any friends."

I clucked. "Ah, yes, that's right. Because you already have me, right?"

Karkat harrumphed, but I noticed he didn't deny my claims. My grin grew a little wider.

The background buzz of nervous conversation quieted as a tall woman strode onto the stage. She wore her hair in a tight bun, and her apathetic eyes fell upon the crowd of dirty, anxious children that stared back at her. She didn't look like she wanted to be here.

I told Karkat this, who snorted.

The woman's hawk eyes landed on the two of us. Karkat straightened and stared back, but I, with my trademark slouch, grinned and gave a little wave. She frowned.

"Gamzee!" Karkat hissed. I ignored him, and held the lady's gaze, who stared back at me. Although Karkat happened to be more outspoken about his beliefs, I was just as passionate about opposing the Capitol. Perhaps even more so.

I was caught by surprise when her frown curled upward into a twisted smirk. She turned away, stepping up to the microphone, and spoke.

"Hello. My name is Damara Megido, and I'm your newest representative. Cheers for District 12," she said, with a tinge of boredom lining her smooth, steady tone. She was met with intense silence. Undeterred, she continued: "As you know, today marks the beginning of the 100th Hunger Games—and the 4th Quarter Quell."

She paused. District 12 waited.

Damara Megido produced a single card from her breast pocket, and held it in front of her face.

"For the 4th Quarter Quell, the tributes will be hand-picked by the president himself, Lord English."

District 12 continued to stare, but they held their breath. Hand-picked? What did that mean?

"There will be no drawing of names," Damara Megido said, ignoring the silent pleas for an explanation. "I already have the names in my hands. Right. Now." She spoke the last two words with a plucky sort of cadence, somehow managing to sound as though she weren't being mesmerized by a swinging pendulum.

"Ladies first," she declared, and produced a second card with a flourish. She read it without pity. "Nepeta Leijon."

Karkat let out a small gasp, and even I turned my head to the fourteen-year-old pen, where the small girl was standing, isolated. As soon as her name had been called, a tight circle had unconsciously formed around her as the other fourteen-year-olds unconsciously moved away.

I didn't know much about her, other than the fact that she was the mayor's prized daughter and one of the few that Karkat considered a close friend. My gaze followed her as she tried to hold her head up high as she made her way to the stage, but I could see that her eyes were bright with the threat of tears.

Somebody from the audience let out a wretched sob. I wondered who it was. Meulin?

"And for our male," Damara continued once Nepeta stationed herself beside her. She crooned her neck, seeking my face. I knew what she was going to say. She didn't even have to say it.

"Gamzee Makara."


	3. Chapter 3

I pressed two fingers to my left temple, willing the dull, throbbing ache to cease. A thousand thoughts warred inside my head, battling for the complete attention that I couldn't give.

Nepeta was sitting beside me. I was pretty sure she was talking to me, but her words floated in one ear and drifted out the other. My mind couldn't focus. It refused to focus. It didn't _want_ to focus.

Nepeta laid a hand on my shoulder, pulling me from my phantasmal trance. "Gamzee . . . ?"

I drowsily lifted my head. "Huh?"

Nepeta bit her bottom lip, as if to keep it from quivering. "No, never mind," she said, doing her best to hide the slight waver in the soprano of her voice.

"No, no . . . you can tell me."

Nepeta shook her hanging head and smoothed a rebellious strand of brown on her head back into submission. Her hair fell down to her shoulders, and it was cleaner than most—or, at least, compared to the residents of District 12. I detected the faint smell of strawberries.

I shrugged, and tuned back in to my hazy memories. I could only recall specific pieces of the events that transpired after Damara Megido read my name, my sentence, off that slip of paper, popping out from cherry red lips.

There wasn't much to remember: nobody came to visit me in the Justice Building except for Karkat and Meulin. The visit from Meulin had been surprising. She came into the quiescence of my visiting room with nothing much to say. We had stared at each other for a long time.

Finally, she had said, "I'm sorry." And then she left, leaving me to wonder what she had to apologize for.

And Karkat. There were no tears to be shed—I suspected he had broken down at home, when I wasn't there. He wouldn't give me the satisfaction of seeing him spill tears if he could help it, being the stubborn boy that he was. I remember being undeterred by his fierce expression, contrasted by red eyes and flushed cheeks.

My eye twitched.

"I'm coming to get you," he had said. "Until then, don't die."

* * *

Flashes of orange, yellow, and red rolled past, the remaining leaves of autumn hanging onto wispy branches, looking like prey tangled in an intricate spider web. I laid my head on the cool glass, feeling the smooth rumble and tumble of the train tracks beneath us.

We were on our way to the Capitol. To participate in the Games. Me. Nepeta Leijon.

I glanced at my co-tribute, who looked like he was drifting off into the world of the sleeping dead. I was terrified of him, even if I tried to hide it as I attempted to make conversation with him.

I tried to think of happy things, but my thoughts were drawn to Meulin's recent behavior—jumpy, nervous, and fleeting moments of pain wrenched onto her face, which was normally blessed by a saccharine tang. I didn't understand, but when my name had been called, I heard Meulin's wrangling cry and remembered.

A small part of me, somewhere deep inside, suspected her of something. But I didn't know what. And, to be frank, I didn't _want_ to know what.

But the rest of me, the sensible part, told me that I was being foolish for doubting her. She was almost everything to me—she was there for me when I had trouble in school, there to protect my secrets, there to squeal with me every time Karkat Vantas made my blush, there to comfort me when the horrors of my past came back to haunt me . . . .

But I couldn't understand. Why had she apologized to me in the Justice Building? Why was I here, in this train, being shipped to my death? Why did everybody have to watch? Why? Why? _Why?_

I didn't notice I was crying until a cold finger brushed against my cheek to wipe it away. I looked to see Gamzee smiling up at me. Something in his languid eyes said, _Everything will be all right_.

Perhaps he was trying to comfort me. I offered him a tearful grin in return, but I shivered.


	4. Chapter 4

What am I doing here? I thought. Why am I standing on this weird-looking metal plate? Why are twenty-three others also standing on these weird-looking metal plates? Why were we sent straight to the arena when we arrived at the Capitol, with no chance to train or prepare for the slaughter? Why do the Hunger Games exist?

I allowed these thoughts to run through my mind, and then, after thirty seconds had passed, I kicked them out of my head, never to return. I didn't have time to contemplate. I didn't have time to bemoan my situation, because it was disgraceful. Shameful. Cowardly.

My father was out there, reclining in his favourite seat draped in crimson velvet, keeping me under his careful, dreadful scrutiny. I could see him now, with a leg swung over the other, sipping tea with a bloodthirsty expression on his face. Those horrible red eyes.

I couldn't fail him. I wasn't allowed to. There was another reason, too, but I couldn't label it. Didn't matter, anyway.

Ten seconds left.

I glanced to my left, eyeing those in the Career pack—_my_ Career pack. A couple plates down, I saw Vriska, the snarky broad that managed to score an 11 during the private sessions. Her frizzy hair fell down past her shoulders, wild and electric. She looked giddy and itching for blood. She would prove to be a powerful ally, but I didn't want her crazed eyes watching my back.

Back-stabbing was my job.

My eyes went round the plates. I could see a lot of the plates in front of me, blocked by the large, jagged mountain of rock that held the cornucopia at its crest. It was going to be hell to get up there.

My eyes went round to my right. And there she was.

Feferi Peixes. My co-tribute.

God _damn_ it.

Her hair bounced and wove down her back, reaching her narrow waists. She was a petite girl, a good head shorter than me, but I could vouch for her big heart.

Not big enough, though.

She looked so fragile. I watched her hold her head up high, and I knew that she was scared by the way she pinched her lips together, by her slightly widened eyes, by her too-straight posture. I felt like I knew everything about her, but she knew nothing about me. Nothing good, anyway.

She wasn't allowed to die. Ever.

But what about me?

I turned away from her, and eyed at the cornucopia. No distractions. I needed to get to the top of the jagged rock as fast as I could. With everybody still struggling to get up, it would be a sure-fire way to cut down the numbers by a good chunk. With the help of the Careers, I imagined we could cut down the player base to about half, and ten minutes wouldn't even have passed.

That was the plan.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Focus.

And then: _BONG!_

The bell.

I scrambled off the plate in synchronization with twenty-three other children, in a frantic state of mind. Some looked like they weren't sure if they wanted to go to cornucopia or make a break for it while they still could. Those pathetic souls. They would be dead in a minute.

My body rammed into the hunk of rock, and I instantly regretted it. Ignoring the spasm of pain, my hand shot up, groping for purchase. Gripping a firm ledge, I pulled myself up and began to scale the jagged rock. It was about twenty-five feet in height, but it was wide and large in circumference—about the size of a small plaza.

Another girl was struggling to ascend the steep slope beside me. Her hair was choppy and short, barely reaching her neck, and she was a spindly thing. I didn't think twice about what I did next.

My hand shot out and grabbed the girl by the shoulder. We grappled for a few seconds, but it was one-sided, and with a grunt of effort, I had her flying down the side of the mountain. She let out a blood-curdling shriek as she precipitated to the ground.

Other people were pulling themselves upward, toward the cornucopia, toward the mighty stash of weapons, rations, tools, and weapons.

Almost there.

I grabbed onto the edge of the crest and heaved. I groped wildly for anything to grab onto, and nearly jumped backwards when Vriska pulled me up.

"Having trouble, Mr. Ampora?"

"Shut up. Quick, grab somethin'." I threw her off me and jogged toward the cornucopia in the center, raking a hand threw my sweaty hair. The tall, silent brute—I forget his name, he didn't have much of a presence—was already standing there. As per typical, his expression was indiscernible.

He also wasn't moving. Just . . . standing there, in front of the entrance of the cornucopia.

When I reached him, I stopped, too.

The cornucopia was empty.


	5. Chapter 5

I was at the base of the cliff, debating whether I should climb or make a break for it while I could.

Then, somebody shouted, "It's empty!" It was the high-pitched squeal of a girl, followed by hisses of exasperation. Obviously, somebody wasn't too bright.

Oh well.

I whirled around on my heels and made a break for it, ramming my feet into the padded tufts of too-green grass that made me feel like I was bouncing along instead of sprinting for my life.

Somewhere, a girl was screaming about her eyes. She couldn't see? Blind? She was done for.

A pang of sympathy pierced through me, but I didn't have time to stop running to see if she was okay—I was running on pure adrenaline, and if I stopped, I feared my ability to move one foot in front of the other would leave me. Scraping a sweaty strand of long, black hair from my face, I continued my run.

I was making my way uphill—the arena was like a large, grassy crater, peppered by a plethora of trees that robbed us of sunlight with their dense canopies. The nights would be cold. Assuming I survived the first day.

In the center of the crater was where everybody started, with the jagged hunk of rock at the very center, and the cornucopia even more centered. The empty cornucopia. The useless cornucopia.

I found it in me to scoff. The Gamemakers were losing their sense. What was the point of private sessions if we couldn't train and prepare? We'd all get low scores. Except for that Career girl who managed to score an 11. Two others managed to score high—the Career girl's co-tribute, the tall one with long black hair and a penchant for silence, who managed an 8, and the laid-back boy from District 12 with a black, curly mop on his head that he called hair. He landed himself a 7.

It wasn't clear what the Gamemakers were trying to accomplish, but it helped everybody else by letting them know who they were supposed to avoid. It was like they'd been painted in the neon colours of poisonous snakes, daring anybody to step within ten feet of them.

There was also the deal with the Quarter Quell. Why were we, the tributes for the 100th Hunger Game, hand-picked by the president, of all people? He didn't know us. He thought he owned us, and this was his way of proving to nation of Panem that he did.

Sicko. Now he probably wanted us to kill each other with our bare hands.

I charged through the thick foliage until I felt like every last bit of breath had been squeezed out of my lungs, which were on fire. I clutched my chest, and had begun to launch into a coughing fit before I slapped a sweaty palm over my mouth, remembering where I was.

I had steadied myself with one hand on the trunk of a tall, willowy tree. The deep brown bark was rough against my calloused hands.

I looked up. It seemed to go on forever, giving us a dark, rustling roof, but taking away the stars from us. I'd have nothing to look forward to once night fell. Another stupid thing to the rapidly growing list of stupid things the Gamemakers had done this year.

I lowered my head and took the first good look at my surroundings. I was surrounded by lush greenery, but everything was covered by a dark, murky hue that made everything look evil and imposing. The gnarled roots of trees twisted ominously, and the bushes were mottled with sharp thorns.

The thought of thorns made me suddenly aware of the scrapes and cuts I'd received from my bull-like charge through the forest, and I stopped to inspect myself. Bright slits of red danced across my skin. The adrenaline had probably worn off now, because I was being attacked by searing flashes of sharp, concentrated pain.

I stood there amongst the mutated flowerage, taking it all in, inhaling deep breathes of thick, greenery-induced air. It was too sweet.

Oh. God.

I fell to my knees, unable to stand, and my vision wavered furiously. It grew from a light pink and was approaching red at an alarming pace. I was losing consciousness. The light-headedness of my situation was painful. I didn't know when I curled into a fetal position on the forest floor, with my long hair strewn across my skinny, wiry frame in feral disarray.

I could make out the silhouette of a body ambling toward me. It reminded me of my past, that horrible night when I was only four, when I was attacked in the middle of the night, in my own house. I only remembered the darkness and a strange cherry red shape. I always thought it was blood.

Aradia Megido, I thought to myself. This is where you die.


	6. Chapter 6

I half-carried, half-dragged the girl away from the ensuing slaughter; after the tributes had realized that the Cornucopia was empty, every tribute made a manic descent to get off the large rock before the Careers got to them first. I tried, without success, to block out the terrified screams of falling children.

"I can't see," the girl moaned. I shuddered, feeling the hot, thick blood dripping onto my back.

She was bleeding from the _eyes_.

"It's going to be okay, you're going to be okay. Please! Please, believe me." It was a sad lie, and we both knew it.

"No, it's not," she said bitterly, her voice cracking in between sobs and speech. "I can't _see_. I am going to _die_."

"Please don't say that." I bit my bottom, quivering lip, holding back tears. The girl seemed to sense this, and we trudged the next few minutes in silence, bar the girl's withering, shaky sighs. I kept looking over my shoulder, watching both of our backs, checking to see if a crazy-eyed tribute was barreling toward us with a knife in tow. We were lucky; everybody seemed to be busy down at the Cornucopia.

I was walking uphill, carefully avoiding thorn-infested bushes and stepping over large roots that swam into my path, as if poised to grab my ankles and bring me to the ground.

"What's your name?" I asked quietly, not wanting to make a noise, but needing to distract her from the banshee-like shrieks from the bloodbath downhill. "My name's Nepeta."

The girl didn't answer at first, and instead nestled her face into my back. A few minutes had passed when she finally said, "Terezi."

"That's a pretty name."

"You too." The silence was back. I fought it.

"What do you think's happening down there?" My voice was tinged with the honey-baked accent of naivety. It was a stupid question, followed by unnerving silence that I was grateful for—I didn't really want an answer to that question.

"What do you think? Stupid." She chuckled into my neck. It was a harsh, but feminine, sound, and I was instantly relieved by it. At least she could laugh about her situation. I laughed, too, but it sounded nervous and unsettled.

Suddenly, Terezi jumped off my back. I whirled around.

"I probably will never be able to see again, but I can still walk," she said, groping the air blindly for purchase, the other one covering her eyes. I offered her my hand. "It's amazing, seeing how I was thrown off the rock. You'd think I'd lose my legs, not my eyes. God damn Career tribute, what a tool."

I led her up the hill. She continued to talk in low whispers. I suspected she was just trying to distract herself, like me, and so I listened.

"So, the Gamemakers decided to let us brawl it out. Lots of blood. But that's probably what they're going for," she said. "Those _asses_. _Completely_ unfair."

I glanced back at her, unsure if we should be having this conversation. She seemed to sense my discomfort. "I'm going to die, anyway. Might as well do it thoroughly," she assured me.

"You're not gonna die. Please don't say that."

"You're no fun." More silence.

We bumbled our way up the hill, with me trying to guide her around bloodthirsty greenery as best I can. I didn't know what I was trying to accomplish. Now what? I thought. What do I do?

"Why are you doing this?" she asked. It was a sudden question, and it caught me off guard. I stopped walking. She bumped into me.

"I . . . I don't know. But I couldn't let you die!"

She grinned. "Pity the blind girl?"

"No! I mean—" I struggled for words, but she just shrugged.

"All right," she said. "Forget I asked. Lead the way." She didn't ask me where she was taking her, and I was glad for it.

We walked for another few minutes, and then something rolled into my vision. I gasped.

Terezi's grip on my hand tightened. "What is it?"

"Over there!"

"I'm kinda can't see."

A pink tone thrilled my cheeks. "Sorry. It . . . it's a house?"

I squinted. That was what it looked like. It was two stories in height, and made completely of wood, actually looking more like a log cabin with two floors than a house. It stood crooked, more buried than built into the curved, upward slope of the arena.

I blinked. "It's big."

"Oooooh. Let's go inside. Maybe we'll find something." She exhaled in wonder. "Or some_one_."

"But what's a house like this doing the arena? It's never happened before."

Terezi was silent. We stood in front of the house for what seemed like forever, stalled by my hesitation and fear. Finally, she said, "Let's just go in. Most of the tributes should be downhill, anyway."

We walked up to the door. My fingers pressed against the wooden door, hesitant. "I don't think you can lock these doors."

"All the more exciting!"

I smiled a weak grin. And then I pushed it open. Somehow, I was comforted by the presence of a blind girl in a bloodthirsty arena.


End file.
